DISCLAIMER: These characters do not belong to me. The O.C. is the property of Josh Schwartz, Dave Bartis, Doug Liman, and McG, Warner Brothers Television, Hypnotic Productions, and the Fox Network. This story is just for the entertainment of my online friends and myself, not for any profit.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is part of my as-yet untitled O.C. stories series, which can be found on my webpage - Enjoy!

Please don't redistribute or alter this story in any way without the express permission of the author. Thank you very much.

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There is not enough air in here. I told Ryan that, but he's not listening. He's doing way too much pacing around and looking at his watch. He's gotta conserve oxygen or we're gonna die.

This place used to be a kind of paradise, or at least it was a week ago, when he and I snuck away from the preparations for Chrismukkah dinner and had some quality gift-giving. Before then, I'd never gotten a blowjob for... well, at all, to be perfectly frank. We may have entertained ourselves out here a few times since then, too. Now, however, our sexy little hideaway has become a glass-walled oubliette.

Goddamn Hailey and her fucking friends anyway. Of course, our deaths might make her see the error of her ways at last, but then it will be too late. Ryan and I will be dead, and he'll never get to tell Marissa he loves her, and I'll never have the chance to try to get Anna back, or Summer back, or something.

I was not intending to die on New Year's Eve, truth be told. If I had my way, my demise would come in a hammock on Tahiti in about sixty years. Cause of death? Exhaustion from sex with Summer. Or something.

"You know you're using up the air with your ranting, don't you?"

Whipping my head around like I'm on a carnival ride, I look for the source of the voice. Oh--just Ryan. "I didn't say that out loud, did I?"

"Yes. Up to the part about dying from fucking Summer when you're seventy-five years old. In a hammock."

Whaddya know? Pacing around after Ryan actually helps pass the time. "I didn't say anything about fucking in a hammock. I meant afterwards, you know, when I couldn't get my breath back."

"Like now?"

"It would be a really pretty beach, though, so I'd be happy when I died..."

"Summer having nothing to do with it..."

"No--she'd be the whole reason I... Oh. You mean that she'd make me happy."

Ryan's eyes roll so often these days that I think they might just stay there the next time he does that. "One would hope, dude!"

Another thought occurs to me. "But what if it isn't Summer? What if it's Anna and Summer?"

"When you're seventy-five?"

"That would be the beauty part of it. We'd all be there together, and doing it all the time, man, and I... Finally, it would just kill me."

"No chance, because I'm about to kill you myself!" He paces once more to the door and presses his face up against the glass to look out into the darkness at the cavorting boys in the pool, and do I really want to know why there are no girls in there with them?

"Do you see her? She's gotta let us outta here, 'cause I'm starting to get loopy."

He spins and glares at me so hard that I'm almost more scared of him than of my imminent demise. "Starting to get?" he barks incredulously, then grabs me by the elbow and starts dragging me to the back of the poolhouse.

"Wait, dude, what are you doing?"

"You'll see," he threatens, unconcerned that I almost lose my footing for a second.

He yanks me into the bathroom and slams the door behind us. "Why did you shut us up in here?" I try not to whine.

"To shut you up."

Immediately, I start to protest. "But isn't there gonna be less oxygen--"

With no idea he meant the shutting me up literally, I find his mouth suddenly blocking my next words. Since I'd been mid-sentence, my tongue is right out there to be engaged by his in an instant. I am pressed back against the closed door, and blunt fingers weave through my hair, holding me firmly in place. For some reason, breathing isn't so hard now, even though Ryan clutches my face to his so closely that it's just through one nostril.

Pulling back to look in my eyes, he pants hard, though it's not a suffocation issue. "I've had enough..." he begins, mopping his chin with the back of his hand.

"Really? 'Cause I haven't." Suddenly, the tables are turned, whereupon I pivot Ryan around and start kissing him up against the wall. I push one hand between our closely clutched bodies and fumble around for his belt buckle. Of course, I miss, and can feel his hardness right behind the zipper of his pants. "Ah," I murmur into his mouth, "Didn't think you had." Without stopping our kiss, I unbuckle and unbutton and unzip him, then yank down his underwear and take him in hand at last. "Want it?" I mutter against his gasping lips.

"Do it," he exhorts me before plastering his tongue firmly against mine. Since he insists, I start jerking him. I may not have had a lot of experience at this in the past, but I've been spending the week refining my technique. As I suck his tongue, I pull steadily on his cock, and one or both of these actions produces the most wonderful groan from his throat.

Sliding the heel of my hand solidly against his penis and holding onto it with my thumb, I reach down with two fingers and nudge his balls roughly. He nearly sputters as he retrieves his tongue and spits, "Fuck! Gonna come!" only seconds before he does just that. Somehow he shoots right up my arm and manages to miss all of our clothes.

Very carefully, I position my arm so it doesn't drip and kiss him quiet simultaneously. My other arm falls around him naturally, so I hold him close and feel his breathing calm against my cheek, his forehead pressed hard against my head. I listen until he sighs, "Okay," when I let go and run my arm under the hot tap in the sink to wash away the smear of milky white stuff.

Before I can reach for the towel, I am practically tackled into a sitting position on the closed toilet lid. "Neat freak," he growls, then attacks my mouth with almost animal-like intensity. At once he is on his knees on the tile in front of me, and my legs splay just wide enough to let him reach my erection. "I'll make you use up all the fucking oxygen," I think I can hear him mumble to himself while he pounces on my crotch and pulls me out into the still-steamy-from-the-shower air of the bathroom.

All my awareness is focused on my cock in his mouth, except for the little bit of muscle tension in my arms required to keep from sliding off of the vinyl-clad toilet cover smack onto the floor. In fact, if it weren't for that, I'd be holding his head down so it wouldn't keep bobbing up like that, just sucking and swallowing and slurping and shit and sweet Jesus and hot tight throat that I have to come down RIGHT NOW and oh holy mother.

And I'm hyperventilating. Ryan pulls off, swallowing and doing that back-of-hand scrub to his mouth again and looking at me with the most indulgent half-grin he can muster, which I wouldn't be able to read at all if I didn't know him so well. From his position on the floor, he snatches up the tiny wastebasket next to the sink and digs through wadded tissues until he finds his prey: a small brown paper sack. "Here. And get dressed," he sighs, tossing it to me as he stands up and shakes himself out, zipping his own pants almost as an afterthought.

Experimentally, I clutch the bag as if to blow it up and give a puff. Oh, yeah--the point is to breathe it back in. Setting down the bag for a moment, I tuck myself back together, finish washing my hands, and follow him into the main room, exhaling and inhaling as steadily as I can manage.

Ryan is already banging on the door, then visibly gives up and flops on the bed. Not wanting to crowd him, and to make sure I don't have far to fall if I faint, I do likewise on the floor. I wonder how much longer she's going to leave us in here. There is really not enough air in this bag...